


Drabbles you've left behind

by Sugar_Junkie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I need more content, Implied Murder, Light Angst, M/M, Mission Fic, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, it's really slow, mentions of (past) animal death, no seriously, so I guess I'll make my own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-05-29 17:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19404484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugar_Junkie/pseuds/Sugar_Junkie
Summary: A serie of short drabbles about Baptiste and Mauga. If you can't find enough content, homemade is fine.





	1. Ants and Tanks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollowedskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowedskin/gifts).



“Did you know that ants outweigh us?” Mauga said casually, as his twin guns cooled down.

“Pretty sure your maths’ wrong.” Baptiste shot back, scouting the area for any enemy forces that Mauga hadn’t turned to minced meat. He was also pretty sure they had cleaned up the entire area, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

He had no love for Talon. Baptiste knew he had sold his soul to the devil the minute he had even _thought_ of enrolling. There was nowhere else to go, the money was good, and that was about all the good he could say about the organisation. But he couldn’t deny that he loved partnering up with Mauga. There was the banter, yes, the easy way that mountain of a man grabbed people’s attention and reeled them into his orbit. He was a sun, bright to the point of pain.

But also, terrifyingly, there was the sheer joy he exuded the minute he stepped on the battlefield. Violence was a language he spoke fluently. The smell of blood and gunpowder followed him everywhere. A dark part of Baptiste, one he didn’t like to consider for too long, relished in hearing that deep laugh as bullets mowed down their opponents.

“Biomass wise, smartass.” Mauga chuckled, no real bite in his tone. “They’re putting billions and billions of tons up against us humans.”

“Including _you_? Incredible.”

“Who would have thought? But here’s my point…”

Baptiste felt his lips stretch into a smile. Of course there was a point. As much as he played the dumb brute, Mauga always had a point.

“As many as they are, it only takes a kettle of boiling water to ruin these little shits. And buddy, you and I? We’re so much more than that. We’re the biblical Flood!”

He passed his arm around Baptiste’s shoulders. Most people would have felt a pang of panic at the weight of him leaning into them, but Baptiste never felt safer than when he was with him. He probably should have been more worried : he’d seen him snap limbs in two like twigs, without even thinking about it. But he knew, deep in his guts, Mauga would never hurt him. The tank’s toothy grin grew closer to his ear, his voice barely a whisper.

“Buddy, as long as we stick together, we’re unstoppable...”

Baptiste believed him.


	2. Don’t Die on Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got two prompts for this one:
> 
> "Mauga gets injured and they have to lay low because, like most folks, Baptiste can't carry him" from @greycatbird  
> "the first time Mauga gets badly injured and Baptiste realizes how much he cares for him" from @Kazeetie
> 
> And I decided to combine them because the themes were similar and compatible with each other!
> 
> tw: for blood and vague descriptions of injuries.

It had all started like any other mission. It should have ended the same way.

This was supposed to be an easy assignment in Ireland. No civilians involved, just a bunch of thugs that had deluded themselves into thinking stealing from Talon was a smart idea. The plan had been simple: get in, remind them who the fuck ruled this joint, get the money back, get out. Mauga and him had been teammates for a while now. They knew their part. If they were quick enough, they might even get to visit that quaint little village that Mauga had read on, the one that had a (supposedly) haunted castle. Baptiste already saw himself holding a beer in a pub, enjoying some downtime for a change. 

Like many things in Baptiste’s life, reality had been disappointing.

“Don’t you _dare_ die on me.”

He pressed his hands on the gaping wound. Mauga opened his mouth to say something snarky, but closed it with a wince. The silence, more than the blood, scared Baptiste. There was so much blood. 

The thugs were nothing like Nguyen had described them. They weren’t dumb hicks, to begin with. The way they moved showed a lot more coordination and wits than you’d expect from two-bit criminals. Someone had trained them. On top of that, they had much more firepower than expected, because apparently one of them had managed somehow to get her hands on the remains of a Bastion unit. She had welded it on top of a wheelbarrow to haul it around. In any other situation, Baptiste would have found the idea hilarious. Now, surrounded by corpses, the pressure he was applying on Mauga’s chest being the only thing that prevented him from joining them in death, he didn’t feel much like laughing. 

Baptiste was not a small man by any means, he could easily shoulder a grown-ass adult and carry them away from danger. Still, there was no way he’d ever be able to lift Mauga. They had killed everyone in the room, yes, but his guts told him more would come. He trusted his guts more than Nguyen’s intel, these days. So if he couldn’t carry Mauga to safety, the tank would have to walk. To walk, he’d have to be stabilized. In the medic’s gun, only one biotic projectile remained. He wasn’t sure it would be enough, but what else could he do?

“Alright. Brace yourself, big guy. This one’s gonna sting.”

His attempt at humor was rewarded by a chuckle and the shadow of a smirk. Baptiste closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wouldn’t have much time. When he opened them again, his hands were steady.

He observed himself, counting down as he moved with surgical precision. Release the pressure from the wound. One second. Grab his gun. Two seconds. Open the charger. Three. Grab the biotic bullet. Four. Unscrew the bottom. Five. Carefully empty the content into the wound. Six. Put the casing on the ground, go back to applying pressure. Seven.

This had to be some sort of world’s record. The yellow biotic liquid worked its magic, knitting the flesh back together under his fingers. He hoped it would be enough. It had to be enough. When the bleeding stopped, he let out a breathe he hadn’t realised he was holding. The wound wasn’t fully healed, far from it, and it’d need more medical attention as soon as possible, but this would keep Mauga alive. For now, at least.

If he hadn’t stepped in front of Baptiste, shielding him from the brunt of the attacks, he would have been the one bleeding out. And what, then? What would happen to his teammate without him to keep him alive? And how many times had they brushed with death before? It was a miracle something like this hadn’t happened before. 

What if he hadn’t had any biotic ammunition left? Would he have watched on as life escaped Mauga? He would never see that toothy grin again, never hear his booming laughter, never visit stupid tourist traps with him or listen to him ramble on about whatever happened century ago in this or that place. They would never quietly talk about their hopes and dreams, tucked in some bar’s dark corner, nursing fruity cocktails. Just thinking about it made him nauseous.

“Thinking strange thoughts in that head of yours, buddy?” Mauga slurred, his expression almost gentle. His skin was paler than usual, glistening with sweat and his breathing was short and shallow… Hemorrhagic shock symptoms, the medic part of Baptiste’s brain noted. But Mauga’s eyes were focussed on him, two embers burning with the same intensity as they had this morning. He wasn’t going to pass out any time soon.

“Just wondering if you’ve signed your life insurance policy before leaving. C’mon, let’s get you out of this shithole! You owe me a drink. Or two.”

As medic and tank limped out of the blood splattered bunker, Baptiste made himself a promise : he would never let this happen again.


	3. Lying (to yourself)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Darfeld gave me the prompt : "That time Mauga went on a mission alone... from Mauga's POV and from Baptiste's POV. In whatever order."
> 
> This got really big so I decided I'd do two chapters, one for each POV. This one is Baptiste's!

When Nguyen sent Mauga alone, Baptiste gritted his teeth and said nothing. Nguyen noticed anyway because of course he did, cold eyes cutting through him like razor blades.

“I do not waste my assets.”

From anyone else’s it would have felt like a reassurance, the promise that they weren’t sending him on a suicide mission. From the analyst, it was nothing but an insult. He would never stoop so low as openly saying “he’s wasted on you”, but Baptiste heard it anyway.

Nguyen had disliked him the second they had met. “A liability”, he had written on the medic’s file. Baptiste wasn’t quite sure if he saw the growing unease he felt every time he was sent out not as a healer but as a soldier, or if that control freak just resented his ability to channel Mauga’s violence. Either way, he hadn’t been able to split their duo apart… Until now.

He did not watch the helicarrier leave. Showing that kind of weakness was for other people. Instead he stayed in the mess, a list of medical research papers arranged neatly in his datapad. He might as well use his free time catching up on that.

Or rather, that had been the plan, because after staring at the same paragraph over and over for a grand total of 20 minutes, he gave up and set the datapad back down. There was no quieting the worry that gnawed at his guts. He kept thinking about how warm Mauga’s blood had been under his fingers, how the skin on his chest still bore scars, angry puckered lines, despite Talon’s state of the art facilities and excellent surgeons. It interrupted the pattern of his tattoos like a stain. Mauga often joked about it. He was nothing if not entertaining, too. Every time people asked about it, he made up a new story on the spot, making the events wilder and wilder. To Baptiste, this was nothing but a reminder of how close to dying his friend had been.

There was nothing he could do about it. Mauga was old enough to take care of himself. So Baptiste did what he usually did whenever the white noise in his mind became too much: he knocked on Sombra’s door.

He wasn’t quite sure when the two of them had become friends. Her skills rarely suited the kind of missions Mauga and him were sent on. Yet, somehow, she had taken a liking to him. She helped him send money back home (he didn’t want Talon to know how attached to his country he was still. The least he gave away, the least they could use against him.) and he brought her food when she got tangled into what she called “hardcore hackering”. He would leave the tray on the floor and a clawed hand would grab it and slam the door closed again. Sometimes it felt more like he had been adopted by a half-feral gremlin than a normal friendship.

The lock opened with a soft click the second his knuckles touched the heavy metal door. He stepped inside. Sombra’s quarters were dark, only lit by the constellations of screens scattered across the walls. Not that you were at any risk of tripping, mind you. Outside of “Señor Sleepy Bear”, the hacker didn’t own much. The room was tidy and impersonal, the kind of place that screamed its occupant might get up and leave at any time. Said occupant was currently perched on her chair, staring at data flashing at a seizure-inducing rate. She distractedly waved toward the cot and he sat on it. Not that she needed a couch or anything. As far as he knows, he’s one of the very few who get to visit her like this. For most people, if Sombra wanted something from you, she found you. Not the other way around.

“Hey, Mijo. Did you need anything?” she spun around, crossing her manicured fingers under her chin. If it weren’t for the dark circles under her eyes, the streaks in her make-up and her tousled hair, she would have looked as elegant as always. Right now, she ran on caffeine, adrenaline and spite and she wouldn’t rest until she had broken through the last of those firewalls that dared resist her.

“Just bored. What are you up to?”

“I'm sure this has nothing to do with a certain someone?”

She quirked her brow at him smugly, ignoring his own question. Of course she already knew Mauga had left today. There was little that could escape her notice. Baptiste faked a nonchalant shrug and grabbed Señor Sleepy Bear.

“Worrying about my friend isn’t a crime.”

The teddy looked unimpressed with his performance and if its beady eyes had been able to convey any emotions, it’d probably mirror its owner’s exasperated eyeroll.

“Right… Your… Friend.”

Yes, his friend. His best friend, even. Before meeting him, he’d never thought that type of guy and him would ever get along and yet. Not having him close by, a step ahead of him… it was a lot like missing a limb. His balance felt off.

“Listen, Mijo...” Sombra sighed and her face softened briefly. She caught herself and fixed it, but he had noticed. She must have been even more exhausted than he thought if she’d let a sliver of genuine emotion slip through the mask so easily.

“You’re not good at lying, not even to yourself. You know this can’t go on much longer.”

She knew what mission Mauga had been sent on. What he'd do there. Who's blood he'd spill. But Baptiste didn’t ask. Just for a little while, he could still pretend that his hands were clean. For a little while, he wouldn’t have to make choices.

“Yeah… I know.”


	4. Lying (to him)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Darfeld gave me the prompt: "That time Mauga went on a mission alone... from Mauga's POV and from Baptiste's POV. In whatever order."
> 
> This is the second part, this one is Mauga's side of the story! It was a little scary, since I don’t have a lot to work from. I can only hope I made this entertaining enough ;) Big thanks to Hollow for the help with grammar!
> 
> tw: mention of (past) animal deaths and implied murder.

When Nguyen told him about the mission, Mauga simply said:

“I’m going alone.”

The analyst tried to argue but he flashed him a smile with way too much teeth and he gave in. Mauga knew he wasn’t afraid of him, not really. He probably should but the truth was that the only things capable of making Nguyen break into a cold sweat were wrinkled shirts, typos and missed appointments. No, the only reason he had given up was because he had realised Mauga wouldn’t budge. Fighting him on this would be a waste of time and energy. The job would be done either way: Nguyen had chosen to spare himself a migraine.

Of course, Baptiste wasn’t happy about being left behind. Their previous mission had shaken him. He would never admit it. Showing weakness with the kind of company they kept? Too dangerous. But Mauga saw how every time the medic glanced at his chest, at his scar, his eyes went vacant. It never lasted long, barely half a second, so quickly gone that most people would think they’d imagined it. It was a look Mauga had seen many times but never seen directed at him before: guilt.

Baptiste  _ cared _ .

Wasn’t that the most mind-boggling thing? Mauga couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. No one gave a fuck when his entire family died. No one gave a fuck when he wandered the streets, dirty and starving. He survived, grew up big, strong enough to work. He’d watched and learned from the best amongst the worst. He had made himself useful, and used others. He had lied and fought and stole and killed. That was how the world worked.

And, Baptiste, he could have left him to die. Mauga had outlived his use, at that point he had become nothing but dead weight. At most, he deserved to be put down quickly, like some kind of broken-legged race horse. A bullet to the head, and Baptiste could have left the bunker without looking back. But he hadn’t.

When Mauga had brought it up (as a joke, always as a joke, sincerity was too precious of a commodity), Baptiste had snorted “Do I look like an angel of mercy to you?” and rolled his eyes. As if that was par for the course. As if he couldn’t even imagine that someone might have acted differently.

And still, he felt guilty. Because he fucking cared. Because he hadn’t been able to, somehow, protect him. Because he hadn’t been able to spare him the  _ pain _ . As if Mauga feared pain, as if it even mattered.

And Mauga, he was greedy and he was selfish. He didn’t want to lose this, that precious little sliver of something rare he’d been miraculously given. So he would have to lie to him. He pretended he didn’t know why Nguyen was sending him out by himself. Pretended he had no clue what the mission was about. The lies came easy. He had an entire lifetime of practice to thank for that.

Baptiste believed him, or tried to. Mauga was grateful for it. If he knew he was on his way to murder the family of some lady as payback for kicking Talon agents out of her town… He wasn’t sure how his buddy would react. He always got mushy about civilians dying. Young ones, especially. Mauga himself didn’t especially enjoy that type of assignment. There was no challenge, nothing to make his blood roar and adrenaline set fire to his nerves.

He had worked in a slaughterhouse, back when he was a teenager. He’d been given a stunner and explained how to use it. For months, his days had been a blur, a succession of pointing the gun at cattle and pressing the trigger. Click, next. A paid job was a paid job. Assassinations were the same, tedious, boring, but Talon paid way better than your average slaughterhouse.

When he reached the woman’s house, the first thing he thought was that Baptiste would have liked her. Her home was cozy but not ostentatious. The door and shutters were a lovely shade of green. Hand painted, judging by the streaks the paintbrushes had left. She had trinkets here and there, things with no value other than sentimentality. Pictures of her loved ones covered the walls. Some of them looked like her, some didn’t. He glanced at her bookshelves approvingly before climbing up the stairs. She wasn’t there tonight. She wasn’t the target.

Talon wanted the death of her husband and kids to be a warning to others. They wanted a bloodbath, the type that would make the frontpage of every tabloid in the country. They would have sent one of their assassins, otherwise. Not him.

He gazed at the sleeping form of the man laying in the master’s bedroom. Listened to the light snoring of the kids across the hall. He thought of Baptiste, kind, trusting Baptiste, hands shaking, trying to stop the life from seeping from his chest. Fighting Death off, he’d stared her down and told her to back off, not today. Thanks for showing up, sister, but this one? He’s not leaving with you.

He honestly didn’t give a flying fuck about those people. They were lucky enough to have lived for so long in such a nice place. Shit happened. Sometimes, shit was a natural disaster, sometimes shit was the omnic crisis, sometimes shit was Talon sending Mauga to beat you into a pulp. But he couldn’t shake off the memory of the medic looking down at him as he lay in a pool of his own blood, equal parts fear and determination burning bright in his eyes. If he knew what he was about to do, would Baptiste regret saving him? Would he stop caring?

Alright. If Nguyen was displeased that he made this whole ordeal quick and painless, he could go fuck himself. Mauga had seen his gran wringing chicken’s necks, back when he was nothing but a toddler. She’d shown him how, explained how to spare the animal any unnecessary suffering. He remembered her precise movements, her wiry fingers. His hands were bigger than hers had been. Easy work. Snap, next.

He brought back a bottle of good tequila as a “souvenir” and pretended he’d been to Mexico. Baptiste hadn’t given up on him and Mauga was a selfish man. When he wanted something, he held onto it and never let go.


	5. Green Seas, Grey Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @gravedance gave me the prompt: "Mauga and Baptiste spending their free time together for the first time in a while."
> 
> I might have to write another one, this one turned a lot more melancholic than I expected it to be. Guess I'm in an angsty mood? I still like it, but I need to write lighter stuff sometimes XD
> 
> tw: mentions of past injuries and death.

It was no Haiti.

Maybe that was an unfair assessment since no matter what sunny paradises Baptiste visited they all paled in comparison to Haiti in his eyes. Haiti was home. But then again, this beach was no sunny paradise either. It was one of those wild places where muddy green waves came crashing on grey sand and jagged rocks, leaving trails of reeking kelp behind. It had a certain charm, he supposed, kinda like how old tomcats with their ears teared up and their fur matted were charming.

“Come on buddy, we don’t have all day!”

With his hair tousled by the wind and the clouds rolling behind him, Mauga almost looked like the cover of a cheesy romance novel. His sly grin was the only thing that ruined the effect. Well, that and his obnoxiously lime green “I’m not a Tourist, I’m a Traveller” t-shirt. Baptiste rolled his eyes fondly and caught up with him. 

“As a matter of fact, we do have all day.”

“I know, it’s great! How long has it been since the last time we got some free time ? A month? Two? Doesn’t matter, it’s been too long.”

“And it only took, what? Our helipad breaking apart mid air and everyone almost dying? Bianchi lost an eye and Min might need skin grafts. One day of paid leave ain’t worth that and you fucking know it.”

Baptiste winced at his own words. He hadn’t intended for his tone to be that harsh. If anyone was to blame, it was not Mauga. Hell, without him there to drag out their injured teammates away from danger, things could have been so much worse. He shook his head and sighed:

“Mwen deso… ah.” He caught himself and started again, in english this time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

Mauga simply squeezed his shoulder. Not for the first time, Baptiste marvelled at how in control he was of his strength. He could rip door from walls and yet here he was, gentle and careful not to hurt him.

“No harm done. Let’s just relax until they call us back home, okay buddy? You’re so tense, you’re starting to remind me of Nguyen.”

“Ugh, think it’s contagious? If I ever start ironing my underwear, please shoot me.”

Mauga’s roaring laughter dissipated the last shreds of tension between them. Despite himself, Baptiste chuckled, eyes crinkling.

“We should hurry before the tide rises again. We’re pretty close, according to the map.”

He tapped one knuckle again the guide book peeking out from his pocket. That thing looked a decade old and Baptiste doubted its accuracy. Things had changed so much after the Omnic Crisis, so chances were that whatever it was Mauga had decided to see was gone. Still he didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that they walked across the beach the same way they walked across battlefields, Baptiste exactly two steps behind. The soldiers in them were too deeply embedded to drop the habit. And besides, Baptiste didn’t want to. The sight of Mauga’s broad shoulders brought him peace. It felt comfortable. Safe. It wasn’t that he feared for his own life. Mauga would protect him, as he always did. But from this position, he could do the same for him. And even more importantly, Mauga trusted him to do so.

The landscape changed slowly. Rocks turned to boulders and bushes to scraggly pine trees. At one point, they had to waddle through pools of salt water that reached over the medic’s ankle. Tiny translucent shrimps darted by their legs. One particularly angry crab crawled out of the sand to wave it’s pinchers at the two intruders that dared disturb its home. If you’d asked Baptiste to draw a prehistoric landscape, he was pretty sure his answer would have been something very similar to this place.

“Found it! Oh man, I can’t believe it’s still looking this nice after all these years.”

It wasn’t Mauga’s usual fake cheery tone, the one meant to dazzle and stun, machine-gun fast words carefully picked to destroy his listeners defences and reel them in. He was genuinely excited, for once. Happy.

Back when he was a teen, Mauga had loved urban exploration, as a concept. Places abandoned by humanity, that had turned into something more, something wild and frightening? This spoke to a part of him he rarely indulged. He had even dreamt of owning a camera and exploring those places, documenting their existence, their metamorphosis over the years… He had since learned that those kinds of adventures were meant for rich people, not people like him. And yet, when he’d seen that book in the library showcase, now a grown ass adult, he had felt the compulsion to leaf through it. Most of the pictures had been mediocre at best, but one stood out. Years had went by, but he remembered it with perfect clarity, down to the weight of the book in his hands and the smell of vanillin permeating the air.

And here it was, standing before him, as mind-blowing as he had imagined it to be. Maybe even better, as Baptiste stood by his side. He was close enough that he could feel his warmth radiating against his arm.

“What do you think, buddy?”

Baptiste thought many things but said none of them. He could only take the sight in.

A gigantic omnic laid on the beach. It was mostly humanoid, hands partially buried in the ground, as if it had been running its fingers through the sand. It must have been painted white, a long time ago. Rust had stained it to a warm orange, streaked with bright green algae. It looked peaceful, head resting on its shoulder, like it had just been lulled to sleep by the back and forth of the waves.

“When Overwatch brought this fucker down, they stripped it from everything that made it work. Motherboards, servos, everything. They only left this frame, not worth the hassle. They grabbed what they wanted and abandoned the rest to rot, as usual.”

In the holes rust had bore in its chest, seagulls had nested. Hungry hatchlings loudly demanded food but, despite the noise, the giant didn’t stir from it eternal nap. The two men sat nearby and watched the birds coming and going. Neither of them felt like saying anything. They didn’t need to. Underneath the thin varnish of morals and values, underneath the training and the violence… There was an instinctive understanding of the other, deeper than either of them would have ever expected.

The two of them, they had seen firsthand the damage the Omnic Crisis had wrecked. They were products of it, born from the deaths and the destruction wrecked by this dead colossus and its kin. And yet, there was beauty still. There was life. And they were here to witness it, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts wanted, send them to me plz.


End file.
